


Desperate Times

by hurry_sundown



Category: Slings & Arrows, due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurry_sundown/pseuds/hurry_sundown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoffrey leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.  “You were telling me about Fraser.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate Times

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt, “Tempt not a desperate man.” _Romeo and Juliet,_ Act V, scene iii. First published July 30, 2007. Post-series dS, pre-series S &A, no real spoilers for either. Beta'd by the estimable spuffyduds.

It's still snowing.

Ray swallows the last of his coffee, and wishes for the seventh (ninth, fifteenth) time that you could smoke a cigarette inside the terminal. Or that he still smoked. Whichever. He tosses the empty cup into a trashcan and wanders off in search of TV.

He ends up edging into a sports-bar, one of those chain places he didn't think they had in Canada. In a little while, a guy in a parka gets up from the bar, and Ray slips into his seat, slinging his backpack to the floor. Five minutes and fifteen bucks later, he has a beer and a shot and a bag of chips in front of him, and the TV with the hockey game - Hawks vs. Flames - tilted in his direction.

By the time Ray is into his second beer, the bar is less crowded. People are starting to stake out floor space in the terminal for the night.

From the corner of his eye Ray catches the shuffle of someone sitting down next to him. Unbelievably, the Hawks don’t score on a 5-on-3 power play. Ray turns in his seat, grumbling, “Shit, they got nothin-” and then the floor opens up under him.

Ray very deliberately keeps breathing while the new guy waves the bartender over. “Whisky, neat. If you please,” New Guy adds, and flashes the bartender a quick smile when she sets the drink down in front of him.

That smile, Ray thinks wildly. Can there be two people with that smile?

“Do I have something in my teeth?” New Guy bares his teeth and tilts his glass, trying to catch his reflection.

“What? Oh, sorry.” Ray feels himself blushing. “Uh, no, you just - you look familiar, is all.”

On closer inspection New Guy doesn’t look exactly like Fraser, unless maybe it's Fraser on a day off, when he's just rolled out of bed and thrown some clothes on to go take Dief for a walk and –

“Ah. I hear that sometimes. A hazard of the profession, you might say.” New Guy puts out his hand. “Geoffrey Tennant.”

“Ray Kowalski.” He shakes Geoffrey’s hand briefly, drops it when he feels himself staring again.

“Hazard of the profession, you said.” Ray seizes the opening. “So, uh, what do you do?”

Geoffrey sips his drink. “I’m an actor.”

“Really? What, movies? TV?”

“Theatre.”

“Like Shakespeare, right?” Ray strikes a dramatic pose. “‘To be or not to be?’”

“Yes. Just like that.” Geoffrey’s expression almost doesn’t change.

“Oh geez, I should know you. But hey, Canada.” Ray shrugs. “And theatre’s not my thing. I don’t know any American actors, either.”

“Canada is part of the Americas,” Geoffrey mutters.

“Huh?” The Hawks still don’t score, and Ray gestures rudely at the TV. “Can you believe this? Vorobiev was supposed to be, like, the second coming.”

Geoffrey shakes his head. “I don’t really follow hockey.”

“But you’re _Canadian,_ ” Ray gapes. “Isn’t there, y’know, a law or something?”

The corner of Geoffrey's mouth twitches. “An ordinance, perhaps. I think it varies by province,” he says, and sips his drink again.

By the time the whisky is gone, Ray knows a fair amount about Geoffrey Tennant, actor, director, former mental patient. “So you never went back to New Cabbage?”

Geoffrey’s drawing circles in the condensation from Ray's glass. “There was nothing to go back to.” He stays quiet for a minute, then says, almost to himself, “Odd, isn’t it? I’ve told you my life story, and I still don’t know anything about you but your name.”

“Hazard of _my_ profession,” says Ray. “I’m a detective. Chicago PD.”

“Hmmn.” Geoffrey looks from his empty glass to Ray’s, and signals the bartender for another round.

Ray taps his fingers on the bar. “Hmmn, what?”

“Hmmn, I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

Ray isn’t surprised. “I do a lot of undercover. You gotta lose the cop vibe for that. So what would you’ve guessed?”

“A musician,” Geoffrey says. “You have the hands of a guitarist, I think. Or possibly a pianist.”

Ray grins. “Nope, not me.” He holds his hands out palms down, flexes his fingers. “What you see here, my friend, are the hands of a master mechanic. I can rebuild just about anything with a motor.”

“Cars, you mean?”

“Cars? Sure. Cars ... motorcycles ... snowmobiles.” His grin fades. “Fraser, he’s the one with the guitar.”

The bartender sets down the drinks. Geoffrey says, “Who’s Fraser?”

Ray looks down, and away.

“I didn’t mean to pr-”

“Someone I know. Knew. I don’t know.” Ray’s still not looking.

Geoffrey says, “Sounds confusing.”

“Yeah,” Ray snorts. “Try living it.”

The bartender is starting to clean up, and she stops in front of Geoffrey. “You should probably go find a corner for yourselves, eh?” She says it as if they came in together. “We have to close up soon.”

Geoffrey thanks her while Ray downs the rest of his beer. They pick up their assorted belongings and step out into the dim light of the terminal.

They walk slowly, having nowhere in particular to go. They pass gate areas where flights have been cancelled, would-be passengers laid out like corpses covered with airline blankets. Along the way Ray ducks into the Men’s room, leaving Geoffrey to wait for him outside.

They pass a string of closed-up shops. Further down, they come to a darkened gate where no flight is scheduled, then or possibly ever. Ray evaluates the configuration of the seats along the wall, figures there’s enough room on the far side for both of them to make themselves comfortable. He steers Geoffrey in that direction, and the two of them stake out the space and settle in. It’s a little like The Adventure, Ray reflects, but with less ice and wind and a lower probability of freezing to death in the night.

Geoffrey leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. “You were telling me about Fraser.”

Ray shifts on the floor, trying to get comfortable on a pallet that consists mainly of his coat. “I don’t think so.”

“When the bartender –”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Ray scrunches up his scarf into a makeshift pillow.

Geoffrey opens his eyes, and sits forward. “Then why did you mention him?”

“I said I do not want to talk about it.”

“Him.”

“What?”

“Him. Fraser is a him, not an it. You did refer to him as, well, him. Earlier. In the bar,” Geoffrey adds, in case Ray is unclear which earlier he’s referring to.

Ray shoots Geoffrey an evil look. “Just because I talked to you _earlier_ doesn’t mean I have to talk to you _now_. Maybe I’d like to get some sleep.”

“Because I’m sure lying on your coat on a floor that’s industrial carpet laid over concrete is conducive to restful slumber.”

“You know, you’re pretty annoying, even for a Canadian.”

Ray swears he hears Geoffrey growl, but when he looks, Geoffrey is leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed again. After a few minutes, during which the floor does not in any way conduce comfort, let alone slumber, Ray gives up.

“He was my partner in Chicago.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t,” Ray says sharply, propping himself up on one elbow. “And open your eyes when I’m talking to you, okay?”

Geoffrey’s eyes open slowly. “I thought you might be more at ease if I weren’t looking at you.”

“I might be more at ease if you weren’t here, but I’m guessing that’s not an option.”

“I’ll go, if you want.” Geoffrey starts to get up.

“No! I mean, you don’t have to. Go. You don’t have to go.” Ray gestures helplessly. “Besides, it’s not like there’s anywhere _to_ go, right? So stay.”

“As you wish.” Geoffrey sits down again.

To his credit as a listener, or maybe Ray’s as a storyteller, Geoffrey sits quietly through Bob Fraser’s murder, Fraser’s sojourn and exile, Ray Vecchio 1.0, the sidebar regarding Ray’s divorce, and The Duet. He doesn’t say anything other than the occasional “ah” or “hmmn” or “I see” until Ray returns from Canada, alone, following what turned out to be the completely symbolic search for Franklin’s Hand.

Geoffrey rubs his ear. “So you left?”

Ray shrugs. “There wasn’t any point in staying. It was pretty clear we didn’t want the same thing.”

“So you _left?_ ”

“What are you, hard of hearing? Yes, I left. Me and the remains of my self-esteem packed up and went home to the turtle.”

Geoffrey opens his mouth and shuts it again without speaking. Twice. Finally, he says, “I don’t understand. You love him, and he’s your best friend – ”

Ray mutters, “Was, anyway.”

“— and yet you left. You didn’t even try to work it out.”

Ray’s expression is somewhere in the vicinity of Pot, meet Kettle.

Geoffrey bristles. “It’s not remotely the same thing. Fraser didn’t betray you.”

“No, he didn’t,” Ray agrees. “I think maybe I betrayed him. We had a good thing going, and I went and screwed it up.”

“You fell in love.”

“Same difference.”

“Hmmn. And you haven’t seen each other since?”

“Nah.” Ray shakes his head. “We write ... talk on the phone once in a while. The letters are better, y’know? Easier than talking.”

“I can imagine,” Geoffrey says dryly.

“Hey, at least I make an effort. Did _you_ ever call, or write?”

“No. I didn’t. Of course, the fact that I was _in hospital_ for an extended period of time might have had some bearing on that.”

“But – but after,” Ray says, “You never went back.”

“Did _you?_ ”

Ray shakes his head. “I thought about it. I even made it as far as Yellowknife, the second time. But then I figured, what’s the point?”

Geoffrey’s head falls back with an audible _thunk_. “Ray,” he sighs, “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, talking to you?”

“ _Here,_ Ray. Why are you _here,_ in Canada?”

Ray colors noticeably. “Just passing through.”

“Ray ...?”

“I’m stuck, because of the weather. Remember the weather?” Ray points out the terminal window, where snow is still falling on the tarmac.

“On your way up, or on your way back?”

Ray looks everywhere but at Geoffrey. “I don’t know yet.”

“Oh, for God’s sake-“

“Don’t you dare judge me,” Ray snaps. “You are not allowed to judge me. You have no idea what my life is like." Ray is up on his knees, up in Geoffrey’s face. “Do you know what it’s like to spend years trying to prove yourself, and then find out it was all for nothing? To find out that people you love only love you back when you’re pretending to be someone else? Do you know what it’s like to get kicked to the curb just when you think you’re finally gonna have everything you – ”

Ray’s voice goes from tight to breaking, because sitting here arguing with Geoffrey is too familiar, and Ray is lonely and tired and frustrated, and he feels like a complete idiot for what he just said, besides.

Geoffrey’s arms go around him, gather him in, and then he’s rubbing slow circles on Ray’s back and making shushing sounds. Ray lets his head rest on Geoffrey’s shoulder. Geoffrey smells pretty good, which Ray probably shouldn’t be noticing, but then again, Geoffrey probably shouldn’t be pressing his lips to Ray’s temple, either.

Ray wipes his eyes with his hand and tries not to think. He figures it’s okay if they just sit like this, if Geoffrey just holds him and rubs his back and lets him pull himself together. It’s comfort, right? Comfort is good.

He’s not sure who moves first, but one of them does, and the kiss is soft and sweet and lasts exactly 3.7 seconds before Ray shoves himself back. “Sorry, God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have – ”

Geoffrey isn’t letting go. His arms are still around Ray, his hands are gripping the folds of Ray’s sweater, and Ray is backing away but Geoffrey is leaning forward. “Ray. Ray. _Ray._ ”

Ray stops babbling.

“Ray.” Geoffrey’s looking straight into his eyes. “It’s been a while, a long while, since ... since anything. No touching, no being touched.”

Ray relaxes fractionally. “Huh. I didn’t think you, uh ... well, I guess you do. But you, uh, you seem like a good guy and ... it’s not like I’m not attracted – because, have you looked in a mirror lately? But I can’t say who I’m attracted to, and that’s, that’s not ... uh, nice. Y’know?”

Ray sees Geoffrey get it. “Oh. _Oh_. When I sat down - you said I looked familiar.”

“Yeah. Kind of,” Ray says. “Kind of exactly.”

“Hmmn.” Geoffrey loosens his arms, but doesn’t let go. “Well, yes. It’s easier that way, isn’t it?”

“Uh-uh.” Ray shakes his head emphatically. “No way. You’re not him. I know you’re not him, okay, do not even suggest that.”

Geoffrey looks down, studies his hands where they’re still holding onto Ray’s sweater. “I’m an actor, Ray,” he says softly. “I can be whoever you want.”

“Hey, no. Be yourself. Be Geoffrey.”

“I’d like to, you know. Lately, though ... lately, I’m not sure who I am.”

Ray pulls away slowly, and turns so he’s facing Geoffrey. “Huh. Lucky for you, I’m a detective. You want me to maybe detect a little?”

Geoffrey doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, what do we have so far?” Ray taps his fingers on his leg. “Canadian, yeah?”

Geoffrey nods. “Canadian.”

“And,” Ray pulls out the neck of Geoffrey’s shirt and looks down inside, “Definitely a guy. So that’s a start – a Canadian guy.” Ray thinks for a minute. “Did you go to school? Y’know, college?”

“University,” Geoffrey says. “Yes, I went to university.”

“Huh, an educated Canadian guy, then. And you’re an actor. What else?”

Geoffrey hesitates, then says, “I, um, I write. Plays, mostly. A little poetry. And ... I direct. I mentioned that, I think.”

“That’s progress,” says Ray. “An educated Canadian guy actor/writer/poet/director. Do you produce, too?”

“What? Oh, _produce_.”

“Yeah, I only look stupid. I know about producers.”

“You don’t look stupid, Ray. In fact, you look – ” Geoffrey stops.

“I look what? Come on, you won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I should hope not. I was going to say you look quite clever.”

“All right then.” Ray preens a bit. “Producer?”

“Yes. But only at university.”

“That counts. So – an educated Canadian guy actor/writer/poet/director/producer. Named Geoffrey Tennant. Where I come from, that’s enough for a warrant. Anything else I should know?”

“I have all of Shakespeare’s plays by memory. The tragedies, anyway.”

“I think that says a lot about you right there. Freak.” Ray grins. “You realize you could just make stuff up and I’d never know the difference.”

“Ray. I’m an actor,” Geoffrey says solemnly. “Of course you’d never know the difference.” But then he’s grinning, too.

And that’s when Ray realizes he’s staring again. He drops his gaze, but only makes it as far as Geoffrey’s lips. He looks up, and Geoffrey is watching him, he’s watching Ray watch him. There’s a few seconds of reciprocal lip-licking and looking back and away, and this time Ray does know who moves first, because he starts to say, “This is stu-” and that’s as far as he gets before Geoffrey is kissing him.

This kiss is not like the first one. It’s not soft, it’s not sweet, and it doesn’t stop.

Geoffrey tastes a little like whisky, but Ray is focused on the things he does not taste like. Geoffrey does not taste like cold or snow, or wood smoke or leather, and he does not taste at all like breakfast tea or wool. His lips are warm and mobile, and holy God, his tongue is doing obscene things to every part of Ray's mouth.

They sink to the floor, Ray’s hands scrambling behind him to drag their coats together for something to lie on. Ray ends up with Geoffrey’s key-ring digging into a kidney. He shoves it out of the way with his elbow while his hands are busy finding their way inside of Geoffrey’s clothing.

There’s a voice whispering to Ray, and it’s not Geoffrey. The voice is telling him that this is what he could have had if life had gone anywhere near according to plan, that this should be Fraser’s weight bearing him down, Fraser’s hands tangled in his hair, Fraser breathlessly murmuring, “Ray, oh Ray” against his ear.

Ray tells the voice to fuck off.

The tip of Geoffrey’s tongue traces through the curves of Ray’s ear, then licks along the outside edge until Geoffrey has the lobe in his mouth, dragging it between his teeth. He does this a couple of times, and Ray’s already arching off the floor before Geoffrey moves down his throat with a line of wet, sucking kisses. When he reaches the curve between Ray’s neck and shoulder, he sinks his teeth in.

Ray groans. “God, Geoff ... Can I call you Geoff? Is that okay?”

“Keep your hand where it is,” Geoffrey pants, “and you can call me whatever you like.” He bites down again.

“Oh, Christ,” Ray gasps, then deadpans, “Ramona.”

Geoffrey freezes for an instant before he collapses against Ray, laughing. Ray takes advantage, turns them over so that he’s on top, straddling Geoffrey’s hips, with his hands on Geoffrey’s chest. Beneath a riot of curls, Geoffrey’s eyes shine darkly. Ray will never mistake him for Fraser again. Fraser has the innocent beauty of a choirboy; Geoffrey is a fallen angel.

“Ray?” Geoffrey tugs on his sweater.

Ray snaps out of it and pulls the sweater off over his head. His T-shirt stays on because naked in public is not a good look for him. He starts to unbutton Geoffrey’s shirt, but it’s hard to make his fingers work with Geoffrey’s hands sliding up his thighs, getting up-close and personal. 

Geoffrey’s shirt is plain cotton, and thin. He’s not really dressed for the weather, which is stupid because it’s frickin’ cold outside. Ray is about to say something smartass about this, about how even he knows to wear the right clothes in the winter, when Geoffrey’s hands finally get where they’re going. The buttons on Ray’s jeans pop-pop-pop-pop-pop and then woops-whaddya-know, Ray is on his back with his pants to his knees and the only thing obscuring his dick from public view is 180 pounds of determined Canadian, or rather, the determined Canadian’s ass, because somewhere in there, between pinning Ray down and divesting him of cover, Geoffrey manages to shove his own pants down.

There’s an awful lot of skin that comes together all at once. It’s warm and smooth and Christ, Ray thought _he_ was hard, but Geoffrey, Jesus. And when they slide together the feeling is so far beyond what Ray expects that all he can do is hold on.

This is good, way good, the kind of good that words fail. Ray’s holding onto Geoffrey, Geoffrey’s holding onto Ray, and there’s kissing and groping and spit-slick slipping and thrusting and Ray swears his heart is going to slam right past his ribs, or maybe that’s Geoffrey’s heart he’s feeling.

They’re as close as they can get, moving against each other, and Ray is going to die if he doesn’t get closer. If he can get one leg out of his jeans, just one, he can wrap it around Geoffrey and pull him in, tight against him, hot and hard and, yeah, right there. He twists and bends and shifts until he gets what he wants, hallelujah, and just like that Geoffrey is shaking in his arms and Ray is falling to pieces.

After a while, the gray recedes, and Ray realizes that he is, in fact, mostly naked in a public place with another body, somewhat less naked, tangled around him, and that the two of them are sweaty and sticky and reek of exactly what they’ve been doing. It is not an unhappy realization. In fact, Ray can just about give a flying fuck, and then only because, without the distraction of Geoffrey trying to screw him through the floor, it’s getting kind of chilly.

They make themselves decent enough to get to the Men’s room to clean up. As it happens, the only person awake to see them is a janitor, who does not comment on the obvious. Ray is at the sink, asking himself whether he and Geoffrey would still be within 100 yards of each other at this point if they weren’t snowed in, when he glances up and sees Geoffrey looking at him like he’s Christmas and Easter and half a dozen Krispy Kremes all rolled into one.

Back in the gate area, the floor hasn’t gotten any more comfortable while they were gone. They stretch out, wrapped around each other, perilously close to cuddling. Geoffrey’s hand cradles Ray’s face and he’s rubbing his thumb over Ray’s bottom lip. Every second or third pass, he kisses Ray sweetly. After a while, he sighs and says, “I can’t believe he turned you down.”

Ray doesn’t answer.

“Ray?” Geoffrey raises an eyebrow. “He _did_ turn you down?”

Ray bites his lip.

“Jesus wept, Ray!” Geoffrey sits up abruptly. “Did you even tell him?”

Ray sits up more slowly. “I told him. Every day I told him. Every day I was out there on the ice. Every step of every mile. Everything I did to stay alive out there, to fit in out there. It was all for him. All of it.”

“Did it ever occur to you to actually say it? In words, I mean.”

“I couldn’t.” Ray shakes his head. “I tried, and I couldn’t. But he knew. He had to know. He always knows.”

“I’m sure your Fraser is many things, Ray, but I somehow doubt that psychic is one of them.”

Ray almost smiles. “You’d be surprised.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know. We were good, for a while. For most of it. Toward the end, though … ” Ray pauses. “I wanted to stay. I thought he wanted me to stay. But toward the end, he started talking about going back. About me going back. About me going _home_. And him going … somewhere else.”

“He didn’t ask you to leave, though.”

“No. Not flat out. More like he just decided I was going, here’s your tickets, have a nice trip, don’t forget to write.” Ray scrubs his hands over his face. “I tried to say something, but I just – I couldn’t. I couldn’t say it. Because he would tell me to go. And I didn’t want to hear it. So I, uh, I tried to show him – not like I jumped him or anything, just, y’know, affection.”

“I gather he wasn’t responsive?”

“If by ‘responsive’ you mean did he completely freeze up, yeah, he was responsive.”

Neither of them says anything for a minute, then Ray goes on. “I don’t get it. We were always like that, with the close and the touching, and ... Right from the start. And, hell, out on the ice we pretty much slept on top of each other. I don’t get why he all of a sudden didn’t want me touching him.”

Geoffrey takes one of Ray’s hands in his. He brings it to his mouth for a kiss, then holds it to his cheek. He says, “Do you still not get it?”

Ray shakes his head, disbelieving.

Geoffrey lets their hands fall. “Ray. Listen to me. If you gather up your courage and talk to him, yes, you might find out there is no future in it. Or you might find out there is. So you can do that. You can talk to him. Or you can _not_ do that, and go on as you have been, living a life of quiet desperation. Is that what you want, Ray? To live your life in quiet desperation?”

“More like loud desperation, I'm thinking,” Ray says. It’s a funny thing to say, but nobody’s laughing, because Geoffrey is right, and this is his _life_ they’re talking about here.

“It’s up to you. I just think knowing might be better than not knowing.” Geoffrey looks out the window, where the snow seems to be tapering off. “It’ll be morning soon.”

Ray yawns. “Might as well stay up, then. Think there’s anywhere to get coffee?”

Geoffrey turns Ray’s hand over to look at his watch. “Maybe in another hour or so.” Geoffrey leans back against the wall with his legs out in front of him. “Come here.”

Ray slides over between Geoffrey’s legs and lies back against his chest. “This okay?”

Geoffrey wraps his arms around Ray and rests his cheek against Ray’s hair. “Very okay.”

* * *

It’s properly morning now. The snow has stopped, the runways are clear, and the planes are flying. It takes some patience and a certain amount of charm, but eventually they’re both re-booked.

Ray’s flight to Yellowknife is leaving first. Geoffrey walks with him to the gate and they sit in comfortable silence until the boarding call.

“I guess that’s me,” Ray says.

“I suppose it is.” Geoffrey stands first, and pulls Ray to his feet.

They hug each other tightly. Geoffrey says, “You know, you might consider actual words this time.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking about that,” says Ray. “So. You ever gonna go back?”

“I’m thinking about that,” Geoffrey says.

The second boarding call comes. Ray lets go of Geoffrey to pick up his backpack and sling it over his shoulder. They grasp each other’s hands one last time, then Geoffrey steps away from the crowd of passengers.

As Ray hands over his boarding pass, he turns to see Geoffrey watching him. Geoffrey raises his hand, and Ray smiles.

The gate agent sees Geoffrey, too. He says to Ray, “Do you know that guy? I think he used to be somebody.”

“Still is,” Ray says, and heads down the jet-way.

* * *

Geoffrey waits until the door is shut and the plane is backing away from the gate. He walks back into the terminal and asks around until he finds the security office. They have a telephone directory, and the assistant administrator says she saw him in _Henry IV_ Part 1, or maybe Part 2, because she can’t remember whether Falstaff was dying the night she was there. She lets him place a local call from the office phone, and hands him a pen when he needs one.

By the time Geoffrey walks back into the terminal, Ray’s flight status shows “Departed” on the monitor. He makes his way to the bank of payphones and drops a handful of change on the counter. The number is scrawled on the back of his ticket envelope.

Terminal business is once again in full swing. Geoffrey has to hold his fingers to his other ear to hear anything when his call goes through.

“Hello! Yes, Corporal Fraser, please ... No, no – I'd like to _speak_ with Corporal Fr- ... That’s quite all right. It is odd, isn’t it? ... No, I never have ... Yes. Thank you kindly.”

The line clicks over to Muzak momentarily before someone else picks up.

“Good morning ... I certainly hope so. You don’t know me, Corporal. My name is Geoffrey Tennant and – … Yes, _that_ Geoffrey Tennant ... Thank you. You’re entirely too kind ...

“Edmonton ... Yes, last night. And did you – ... Ah, that’s good. Your roads are passable, then? ... Fine, fine. Actually, Corporal, the reason I’m calling is, well – how soon can you get to Yellowknife?”

* * *

**Epilogue**

 

_Dear Geoff,_

_I bet you’re surprised to hear from me. It wasn’t all that hard to find you, once I convinced Fraser that a computer search and a couple of phone calls maybe didn’t constitute abuse of official resources._

_Speaking of Fraser, you won’t believe this - he was there, in Yellowknife, when I got off the plane. Imagine that. (I guess you have resources, too. Freak.)_

_I don’t know what you were thinking, but it wasn’t all hugs and puppies. Okay, there was a hug. But definitely no puppies. There was also a lot of talking. And maybe some yelling. And finger-pointing. But nobody got kicked in the head, which is saying something._

_So, yeah, I told him. In actual words. After which there was more talking, more yelling, and more finger-pointing. Still no kick in the head - not then, anyway, and that’s all I’m saying about that._

_Nothing’s settled yet. Well, the important part is, but I’m busy with the loose ends in Chicago and trying to get the immigration thing worked out. And learning French – “La plume de ma tante est sur la table.” Not bad, huh?_

_I have to keep this short if I want to get it in the mail today, otherwise it’ll be another week. I hope you’re doing good with the new theater. Maybe we’ll head down sometime and look you up. I’m kind of curious to see what would happen if we got you and Fraser together in the same room._

_Best regards,_

_Ray_


End file.
